


Slow Boat to Singapore

by Plausible_Deniability



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-12 16:59:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18450812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plausible_Deniability/pseuds/Plausible_Deniability
Summary: Post-series. A highly anticipated reunion in Singapore is waylaid by events. (A very late-breaking entry for the March "Phryne's Journey" challenge.)





	1. Chapter 1

_Too bloody hot for breakfast_ , Jack thought, although here he was, 7:30 am, dutifully, at his assigned table and assigned seat, as the P & O steamer on the British India line chugged its way northeast around the Queensland coast. 

Several of the older gentleman, white haired and whiskered, had swapped their grey wool suit coats for blue seersucker after they made port in Brisbane. Jack made note of the ritual, but had no inclination to follow, even if he had owned the proper attire. 

Jack nodded politely to his table companions — the Martins of suburban Sydney en route to Calcutta to visit a son in the Raj, the honeymoon couple disembarking in Java, the tea importer with business in every port of call along the way. Jack had learned to bring a book to meals to survive the hours of forced proximity. After the “good days” and “fine weather we’re having” were exchanged all around, Jack would escape into his pages while the din of conversation continued around him. 

His concentration, given the circumstances, was excellent. 

So much so that he only noticed the waiter adding a new chair to the assemblage when said chair’s wooden arm collided with his elbow. “Apologies, sir. Apologies. It can’t be helped.” 

The man gestured to the rear of the immense dining room where white smoke billowed through the swinging kitchen doors, forcing guests nearest the kitchen to abandon their own tables for other outposts. 

A tall woman with neat brown hair was directed to the chair at Jacks’ left. 

He’d returned to his book, only peripherally making note of her deep green blouse and knotted scarf, avoiding eye contact as the Martin’s offered her greetings and clucked in sympathy for her unfortunate exile. 

It was only when she turned to him directly — “Would you pass the tea, Jack” — that he regained full use of his senses. 

“Rosie,” he startled, jostling his own cup and saucer. 

“I’ll leave, Jack, if you prefer,” she answered. “It wasn’t my intention…” 

“No, of course not. Don’t be foolish.” 

“I mean, if you were waiting for someone.” 

“I’m traveling alone.” 

“Alone? But I thought. I mean, I had assumed that you and…” 

Jack pushed his chair back from the table as prying eyes bored in. 

Rosie stood up now, muttering excuses to the table, as she followed Jack to the outer lobby, where he faced the elevator, eyes fixed and steady on the number indicator above the closed doors. 

“Jack,” she said softly, coming close and placing a gentle hand on his arm. “Come back to breakfast.” 

“I’d rather not, Rosie,” he answered, eyes downcast now, still avoiding Rosie’s own. 

A crisp chime announced the arriving elevator car. Doors opened. Passengers streamed out. 

Jack stood still. 

Rosie stayed next to him — calm, waiting — arm still resting gently in the crook of his elbow. 

Doors closed. 

“This way, Jack,” she said, guiding him towards the double doors that led outside to the starboard deck. The deep blue of the Pacific stretched out as far as the eye could see. 

After a time, Jack fished a telegram from the pocket of his suit coat. He unfolded it with great care, smoothed the creases, then handed it over to his ex-wife for her inspection. “I’m the one being foolish, it seems.” 

> Dear Jack,
> 
> Cannot be at Raffles as planned. 
> 
> No time to explain. 
> 
> P 

“What does it mean?” Rosie asked, doing her level best to remove any judgement from her tone. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Is she in danger?” 

“I don’t know, Rosie.” 

Jack took four steps towards the bow. Rosie followed behind. 

“You’re a detective, Jack. Surely you’ve contacted the authorities in Singapore. Made inquiries.” 

“She’s a detective also, Rosie,” he answered, spinning round on his heel. “And I believe this message makes perfectly clear that I’m not to follow.” 

The rising volume of Jack’s anger fixed Rosie firmly in place, the telegram still clasped in her right hand. 

Jack met her gaze, steadied himself, then extended his hand slowly, asking silently for the message to be returned to his safe-keeping. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, kissing her softly on the cheek. “I lost myself.” 

Rosie nodded her understanding. 

“I’ll disembark in Darwin,” he added before taking his leave. “Perhaps breakfast tomorrow." 

_I'd like that_ , Rosie thought, wishing she could say that she'd never seen him like this before. 


	2. Two

It was mid-morning of the next day before Rosie located Jack again — not that he had any desire to be found. 

A vertical steam pipe obscured the view of him from most passengers promenading this far forward on the starboard deck but Rosie recognized her ex-husband’s stance with only a partial view. The air was heavy with moisture — surely one of the sudden thunderstorms so common to this part of the tropics would emerge any moment — but Jack leaned against the railing in full professional attire, shirt buttoned, tie tight. There was no detective’s alertness in his gaze. Only a vacant sadness as he looked upon the unchanging ocean before him. Rosie knew the feeling. 

“Jack,” she called, placing a hand gently on his shoulder, then removing it as soon as she had his attention. “Any news?” she asked. 

Jack turned his head towards her without shifting his position at the railing. He shook his head slowly. “I don’t expect there will be,” then looked back towards the vast Pacific. 

Rosie fingered a scrap of paper in her skirt pocket. She could give it to him now, but feared in his present state he’d let it fall from his fingers into the murky blue. A more indirect approach was warranted. 

“You haven’t asked me what I’m doing here,” she began. 

“I haven’t.” 

“Not curious?” 

“It’s none of my business,” he said, “unless you choose to make it so.” 

“Do you remember my cousin, Anne? On my mother’s side.” 

“In Sydney?” 

Rosie nodded. “Her eldest son Quentin deals in antiques. Art objects, paintings, that sort of thing.” 

Jack moved towards Rosie now, facing her at an angle, back wedged between the steam pipe and ship’s railing. 

“With the economic downturn, there are quite a lot of men currently down on their luck looking to sell to men in different circumstances.” 

“You’re a courier,” Jack stated. 

“That makes it sound more formal than it is, Jack. Some of Quentin’s customers don’t trust their items to be shipped anonymously.” 

“It could be dangerous, Rosie. I don’t think you realize…” 

Rosie silenced him before he could finish the sentence. “I realize there are bad men everywhere. Sometimes where you least expect them. But I’m done being afraid, Jack.” 

A weighty look passed between them, containing a multitude of meanings shared between people who once knew one another intimately well, but now had the distance to see both familiarity and strangeness. 

“There’s no need to worry about my safety, Jack,” Rosie continued. “My nephew pays an armed guard as the items are loaded on board, and another at the destination. I rarely touch the objects. I allow Quentin to offer reassurance. Symbolic, perhaps. But I like to think I’m helping people change course after great misfortune.” 

“I’m certain you are, Rosie. Quentin always seemed a fine young man. I’m pleased for you.” 

Jack’s tone was too polite — even a bit curt, Rosie thought. He was ending the conversation, intending to avoid further conversation until he disembarked in Darwin. 

She pulled the slip of paper from her pocket with her left hand, and grasped Jack’s hand with her right. 

“What’s this?” he asked. 

“I telegraphed ahead to Singapore,” she answered. “To the Raffles Hotel. I’m there quite often these days. This is Phryne’s forwarding address. She left it at the front desk for anyone who inquired.” 

He took the paper from her, stunned by both the message and Rosie’s resolve. “Bombay,” he read. 

“She assumed you’d inquire. She assumed you’d act like a detective.” 

“And not a fool,” he responded. 

“Do you love her?” 

“You know that I do.” 

“Waiting takes more strength that most men realize.” Rosie took both of his hands in hers and held his gaze, willing him to catch a glimpse of the memory she summoned to mind. A young wife at her kitchen table, poring over news from the front. Waiting while shopping, cooking, and cleaning. Waiting alone at night. Waiting for years. “I couldn’t follow you, Jack. But you can follow her.” 

Jack smiled — the true, honest smile that took ten years from his face — and gathered Rosie into his arms. “Thank you,” he whispered, hoping his tone conveyed decades of gratitude. 

“Send a telegram to Phryne,” Rosie said, breaking the embrace. “Then join me for in the main lounge. We’ve days and days to India. We can wait together.” 


End file.
